


Grilled Cheese and Tears

by GustavK



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Reversal, Age Swap, Depression, Dick's riding the StruggleBus, Hurt Dick Grayson, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mild Language, Miscommunication, Non-Linear Narrative, Not What It Looks Like, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:57:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GustavK/pseuds/GustavK
Summary: After witnessing his parents fall to their deaths, eleven-year-old Dick Grayson is taken in by billionaire Bruce Wayne; his son, twenty-two year old Damian Wayne; and his other adopted ward, Jason Todd. Still grieving the death of his parents, Dick has to come to terms with a new life- and the expectations that it requires of him.





	Grilled Cheese and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came from the lack of age-reversal fics, and is pure self-indulgence, and I typed this all out in one sitting at 1am, so I'm hoping I got most of the typos. I'm honestly not quite sure where I'm going to go with these, so it may end up becoming a collection of drabbles instead of a linear story~ and speaking of stories, I apologize if the exposition is weak, I'm not very good at this whole writing thing.

The first month after taking in Dick was the worst. So bad, in fact, that after three weeks, Damian suggested to Bruce over dinner, that the boy might be better off in a foster home.

Bruce, of course, clenched his jaw and told Damian resolutely, that the boy was their responsibility—and they would not abandon him to the wolves of the Gotham Orphanage.

Damian’s eyebrows had shot up, and he demanded to know how much better were bats than wolves.

At the head of the table, Bruce set down his cutlery, pressed a hand to his mouth, exchanged a glance with Alfred over Jason’s head, but did not reply. Damian scoffed, and threw a hand to the empty seat beside Jason, a plate made up and food served, but occupant missing.

“Father,” Damian exclaimed, dropping his hand back down to the table, “The boy is miserable here. He shouldn’t —”

“Like I said Damian, he’s better here than—”

“He doesn’t eat, he locks himself in his room, he crie—”

“It takes an adjustment period, I wouldn’t expect you to—”

“We remind him of his parents! Every time he sees us he’s reminded that we were there when they fell! He didn’t have to deal with that at the orphanage.”

As his eyes ping-ponged between Bruce and Damian, a flicker of movement in Jason’s periphery caught his attention. He looked to the doorway of the dining room, and gently set his fork stabbed with green beans down onto his plate, biting his lip and feeling his heart sink. Alfred noticed Jason’s movement, and they both watched as Dick stepped into the doorway, pale and swimming in sweatpants. Alfred snapped his head to the squabbling couple, a demand them to stop speaking on his lips, when Dick quietly spoke up for himself.

“I’m sad, not deaf.”   

Ignoring Damian's low, "Of course," at the sound of Dick's voice, Bruce immediately stopped his argument in its tracks, and turned to the boy in question as he stood, ghostly in the doorway.

The sudden hush of the dining room smothered any apologies that rose to Bruce’s tongue, and the shame of being caught by the subject of their argument made his heart twist. Dick’s face was sullen, but he quickly schooled his features back to something neutral at the full attention of the room.

Alfred leaped in and swiftly broke the silence. “Ah, Master Richard, we were hoping you would be joining us,” Alfred smiled courteously at Dick, and gestured to the untouched plate at his side. “Tonight we have prepared a filet mignon marinated in balsamic vinegar and red wine, topped with mushrooms, and served with a side of green beans.” 

Dick drifted in deliberation, trapped between Alfred’s kindness, and the confirmation of knowing that his existence at the Manor was a source of contention within the Wayne family. He took three steps into the dining room fully prepared to suffer through the stifling silence in the name of a full stomach, but stopped by a memory of his mother.  

_Robin, my darling,_ Her voice drifted to him—and Dick was suddenly seven years old again. She and him had been about to eat an early dinner before a show, but she had caught a glimpse of a bruise on his face, and stopped him from eating. _What has happened?_

What had happened was that Dick had been in a scuffle with a local boy who had informed him that his bloodline was filthy and impure. Dick, having not yet learned the art of “being the bigger man”, (as his father had put it,) had shot back that the local boy’s parents were mudding up the boy’s bloodline by being blood-related, and he’d gotten a black eye for his wit. He relayed all this to his mother, and asked her if he was allowed to begin dinner. His mother looked pained, and instead asked him, _Did you apologize?_

Dick had made a face at his grilled cheese untouched on his plate, and grumbled that he didn’t think he was the one who had to apologize. _Anyway, mama,_ he had pointed out, he didn’t even know where to find this boy again to apologize if he _wanted_ to.

His mother had given him a saddened look, and Dick’s heart sank as he realized she was disappointed in him.

_May I begin my dinner, mama?_ He had asked in a whisper, desperate for a distraction from her gaze. She didn’t answer, drawing out the silence between them, and Dick could feel tears prick in the corners of his eyes, and knew that if he blinked, they would spill over onto the grilled cheese that his mama made for him.  

_You may,_ His mother had finally softly permitted, breaking the gaze. She started in on her own plate, not looking to see if he had done the same. _But know that even the best meals are ruined by a weight on your shoulders._

Dick had stared down at his grilled cheese, too sick with himself for disappointing his mother to even think about eating, and the smell of grilled cheese faded away, replaced by steak and green beans. Back in the present, Dick sighed in resignation, and ignored his growling stomach in favor of addressing the elephant in the room.

It had sounded like he walked in on them debating whether or not to send him back to the orphanage. Although he hadn’t quite found his place here yet, Dick wanted to stay at the Manor. He appreciated a routine eating schedule, and a bed that wasn’t just an itchy blanket on the bare floor. He wasn’t sure if he was above begging, but he figured if he had to beg to stay, he could cross that bridge when he got to it.

He pursed his lips, trying to frame out what he wanted to say, overly conscious of the four other people in the room and their authority over his potential well-being. Internally, he berated himself for not becoming more of a presence, for not endeavoring himself to at least one for his new housemates. He would have to rely on only his own arguments to stay. It’d already been three weeks, and what had he done? Sobbed in his bedroom. The police psychologist he had talked to when he gave his statement, had told him that crying was okay, and that he should take as much time as he needed to mourn his parents, but had he realized the Wayne’s had put him on a time limit, he would’ve worked harder to mourn faster.  

He opened his mouth, and shut it again, then opened it again and spoke. “I don’t mean to be a burden, and I’m sorry if I am—”

“You’re not,” Jason cut in quickly.

Dick glanced at him under his eyelashes, and plowed on. “I—I’ve never been alone before. The circus is my family,” He stuttered here, the sudden memory of Zucco shaking hands with Haly ripping into him with such force that it caused his shoulders to shrink deeper into his sweatshirt, and he had to squeeze his eyes closed for a minute to chase the memory away.

“Or, it was, I guess. I get why I can’t go back there, and I’m, um,” Dick’s throat began to close, his voice breaking. The unwavering stares of the men in front of him were throwing him off his rhythm. “I’m grateful that you’re trying to give me a home, Mr. Bruce—”

Dick’s jaw snapped shut, horrified to find himself close to tears. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palm. As he fought to shove down his emotions, no one interrupted in the pause he took, the silence becoming suffocating. _What the_ hell _am I even doing?_ He thought in a panic, breaking eye-contact to stare at the ceiling.

  _T_ _his is the most I’ve heard him say at once,_ Bruce thought, holding his breath, not wanting to even make a sound in case it spooked Dick out of finishing _._ He flashed a look to Alfred hoping Alfred was seeing the same thing he was. Alfred shot a glance back, with a look that said he was.

_This could be an emotional breakthrough for him—a step in his grieving process…_ And as inappropriate as the timing may be, Bruce was already thinking about how Dick’s gymnastics could be utilized in the Gotham streets. 

Behind Bruce’s back, Jason watched Damian watch Dick as he more or less hyperventilated trying to get his emotions in order. Jason worried his lip as Damian curled his at Dick, knowing only from long-term exposure that it was out of something closer to concern than disgust.

The two of them caught the look that Bruce and Alfred shared, and Jason watched Damian realize neither one of them were going to step in to help Dick _breathe_. Damian put his hands on the edge of the table, getting ready to push his chair out, but Jason kicked his ankle, and put a finger over his lips at Damian’s nearly inaudible gasp. _Let him sort himself out,_ Jason tried to convey as Damian reached down to rub at his leg. _He can do it._

Damian’s mouth snapped shut, then opened with purpose, words about to tumble out when Dick took a sharp inhale and began again, eyes darting from the ceiling down to Bruce. “If I’m not…fit to be here, then I don’t want to impose. I guess, I mean, I don’t know. I don’t want to be the reason why you fight—” 

“Can you get to the point, please,” Damian cut him off, tactless as ever, “I would like to know what you’re trying to do here.” 

Under the table, Jason slammed him foot down on Damian’s with as much force as he could muster.

“Fuck!” Damian shouted, and whipped to face Jason, shoving a finger in his face.

“Watch yourself, replacement,” He spat at Jason, using Tim’s usual nickname for him. It had the desired effect, and Jason’s eyes darkened into something dangerous.

“Boys!” Bruce yelled.

In front of the room, Dick jumped nearly a foot in the air, startled by the sudden shift to violence, and Alfred tried to catch his eye in reassurance. The boy looked shaken, but Alfred noticed that Dick’s seemed to have recovered from jaws of a panic attack.   

Next to Alfred, Bruce was asking Damian what the hell was _wrong_ with him, and hadn’t he learned any manners in his twenty-two years of living, no, saying “please” does not count as good manners, and that that goes to you too, Jason, there are simpler ways to reprimand someone than _breaking their toes_ —

_Violence would be something he will have to get used to if he is to stay,_ Alfred mused tuning them out, almost as soon as he had the thought, he realized the reasoning for Damian’s outburst. He studied Dick again, closer this time. He really was very near calm, or what passed for it anyway. His hands still minutely trembled, but they were no longer balled into fists at his sides. Sneaking a look at his watch Alfred noted that not a minute had passed since the beginning stages of Dick’s panic attack, and looking at him 53 seconds later, it appeared as though Dick had never not been collected. _That emotional self-discipline is something that took Master Bruce nearly two decades to master,_ Alfred recollected. _And here Dick is at eleven, years ahead of Jason, Tim, and Damian—at least in an emotional sense._ Fatigue suddenly filled Alfred, seeing Dick in a new light. _Exactly how much pain has this child been through to develop this skill, and who are we to subjugate him to any more trauma?_

Damian tore his eyes away from Jason to face his father. “If he has any chance of staying here, then he’s going to have to get used to _fighting_.” He slanted a look back to Dick, and drawled, “Verbally, of course.”

Dick frowned back at him, not in anger, but in thought; and Damian was genuinely pleased to see that the boy was thinking about the implications of the word “fighting”. He was also pleased to see that it no longer looked like Dick’s heart was going to pop out of his throat. 

“Ignore him, Dick,” Jason advised, angerly stabbing his green beans. “He’s peacocking to try and intimidate you,” He shoved a forkful in his mouth, and sneered at Damian around it. “He’sh jusht uh shpoild brat who’sh been," He paused to chew and swallow, "Hand-delivered the silver spoon up his ass. Oh, but no offense though, Alfie, Bruce.”   

Bruce rested his head in his hands, rubbing his temples, and Alfred gave him a look that sternly read, _manners._      

“All I’m trying to say, Father,” Damian appealed, ignoring Jason, “Is that the boy—”

“I’m right here,” Dick remarked, annoyed.

“Isn’t exactly going to have a smooth transition into a happy home should he continue to live with us. If he can’t get used to _us_ fighting,” Damian swung a hand around the room to indicate the present occupants. “Then how will he ever get used to, say, Tim? Or Batm—”

Bruce lifted his head out of his hands, stopping Damian with a simple, “ _Don’t_.”

As Bruce and Damian fell into a stare off, Dick shifted on his feet. His original train of thought having jumped tracks. Damian’s outburst, threw him not only out of his panic, but out his confidence. _Get to the point_ , he had said. What was Dick’s point? That he could ramble? And more, What _was_ he doing here? It was obvious Damian hated him, wanted him gone from the Manor—but what about the others? Who, or what, would he be to them if they let him stay? The longer he thought about his options, the more he spiraled, sinking back into the mindset he had found himself in at the orphanage.

_Would these strangers cry if I died?_

His head spun, and self-doubt about his future at the Manor settled deep into his bones.  

Alfred cleared his throat, and all eyes snapped to him. “I do believe that Master Richard was trying to finish a thought, before he was interrupted.”

All eyes shifted back to Dick, and in the spotlight of his worries, he found that he was too exhausted to be afraid anymore. He was hungry, upset, and missed his parents with an ache that made him nauseous. He’d spent the past three weeks in mourning, and here he was fighting with strangers in a house intimidating enough that it gave him nightmares. Although familial arguments weren’t something he was unaccustomed to, _this_ particular argument—the issue of what to do with Dick?—wasn’t his to solve.

Damian had raised a fair question: what was Dick trying to do? These billionaire’s problems couldn’t be fixed with by an eleven year old intruder in their lives, and if Dick’s intuition was good enough to go by, their lives seemed to be ruled by conflict—who was he to step in, add to their troubles?  

Not to mention that it wasn’t like Dick didn’t have issues of his own. His parents were dead, murdered—actually—by the associations his family who had raised him and sheltered him had harbored. He knew no one in Gotham besides Bruce Wayne, the infamous billionaire, who only seemed to take him in out of pity; and whose family barely seemed to tolerate Dick’s presence. He was an unwanted mouth to feed, and in the mercy of people who probably would only shrug as go “oh well,” if he didn’t wake up the next morning.

 It was warm here at the Manor, and he was provided a bed and regular meals; but if they sent him back to the orphanage, although he’d probably be neglected and starved, he’d, (at the very least) be in company as miserable as he is.

Picking through his thoughts like this, logically, for what felt like the first time in months, Dick realized he truly didn’t care what happened to him. His earlier mindset about having to _beg_ was laughable now. The only reliable person he had in his life was himself, and the memories of his parents. If Bruce decided to send him back to the orphanage, then so be it. His parents were dead, and he felt like he might as well be. What more did he have to lose? 

This in mind, he shrugged in defeat, and met Bruce’s eyes head on. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you have my…permission to send me back to the orphanage. I won’t put up a fight about it, if that's what's in the Wayne's best interest.”

Jason and Bruce dissented at once, both trying to reassure Dick that that wouldn’t be necessary, and that Dick had a place at the Manor. Bruce looked tormented at the very thought of sending Dick back where they had found him, and Jason helpfully chimed in that _Dick_ wasn’t the problem _,_ pointedly glaring at Damian.

Damian missed it however, eyes not breaking away from Dick. He was silent and considering, head cocked and eyes narrowed. Dick held the stare, dead-eyed.

“Do you want to go back to that hell-hole, Dick?” Damian finally asked, an eyebrow cocked.

Dick paused, then shook his head. “I will if it’s what’s for the best.”

Damian _tsk-_ ed. “Then you’re a martyr already.”

Dick huffed and complained, “I don’t know what that is,” He rubbed his eyes, and looked at Alfred, then Bruce, and asked, “Can I sit down?”

Alfred pulled out the chair next to Jason for him, and Dick clambered into it. As Alfred went into the kitchen to reheat his food, Damian turned to Bruce and warned, “The last thing we need is another martyr,”

Bruce rolled his eyes at him in response, and Damian curled his lip, affronted.

Jason sniggered, and stuck his tongue out at Damian when Damian mouthed, “replacement,” back at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you made it this far, thank you! Leave a comment and kudo please!


End file.
